Scobie, who had come to Valletta one summer to write a novel and ended up staying on as tutor to the feral children of rich Maltese, had gone down to the port to check out the scene and ended up in a bar frequented by sailors. For the most part he enjoyed their company. Even if they were drunk, he put up with their goings on.
This evening proved no exception with a rowdy gang of Yanks out celebrating their furlough with Born in the USA till some Frenchies and Ityes hit back with the Marsaillese and Nessun Dorma.
A bottle broke over someone’s head.
Bruce Springstein grabbed a Frenchie by the throat.
Someone pulled Scobie off his bar stool.
In the melee Scobie managed to give everyone the slip.
He ran out the bar and onto the jetty where he tripped on a piece of rope and fell over.
When the sailor caught up with him, Scobie was tugging at the broken heel wedged between some dodgy planks.
“Be’,” said the sailor, leaning over him with hot whisky breath, “vuoi fare il bagno? Are you going for a swim?”
“That’s it,” thought Scobie, “I’m going to be buggered by Pavarotti.”
The Italian sailor squinted.
“Mi piace il truco, he said. “I like your make up. Can you show me how to put on the lipstick?”
*
“Pushkin would never dress up in women’s clothing. It’s clearly a lifestyle choice for Scobie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think he has had any adjustments?”
“Oh, Mabel, must you?”
“Well, I’m curious. That’s all.”